I bet you think this song is about you

They hopped around the kitchen eating fried plantaines and tzadziki, dancing with their socks on because its Wednesday night and you know what time that makes it. Giggling, she knocked the peanut butter from the shelf onto a wine glass filled with water, and as it shattered shards and splashed me with water I turned and walked away.

it’s the stupid things. You know those songs? she said to me tho other day when we were talking about her J and C. Those songs just seem to play, for no reason randomly, and then you’re stuck. < Congratulations. your song is a stupid youtube video. that and a symphonic piece from the end of the Ocean’s Eleven Soundtrack that Easy Jet plays before take-off and just after landing. An improper or ironic or simply strange bookend to Paris, and I suspect it will be a similar endcap to London… but I guess that’s the point, isn’t it >

She joined me on the red-suede fortress. asked me to pick a song. and I chose Let it Be. We hand picked song after song, staring off into space and time and the abstract painting on the opposite wall. We settled then in an ocean – not a sea of soul per say but JBT bit with sweeping tidal melodies strummed by a man with the most beautiful dreadlocks I’ve ever seen. I’m not sure which one of you to thank for him, but in this moment he didn’t mean anything beyond she and I and the reds and blues and greens crossed by purples and yellows and dotted with tans. We looked up tour dates and perused Facebook, idly moving our hands while our minds wandered elsewhere.

I told her I was angry, and she agreed. we put it aside, like we’ve been doing for the day. we flipped the coin, I told her that you, sir, and she whom she adores hadn’t gotten along. She the one with me on red suede wondered if she’d like you, Maybe because you wouldn’t like her. not that I expected you two would ever meet, but she asserted that with a gold bikini involved you might be very much present. We laughed and I rolled my eyes. Regardless, she said, she loves your music.

She snuggled beneath the blanket I’ve been feigning sleep under for some time now and remarked how it resembled a big black bear. And a toast to yours, equally as mundane and unintentional as Wednesdays in socks, and we went and found the song. And the band, one man from London apparently and ironically, who hails from Shoredich and is probably acquainted with several of my ex-co-workers. Of course she loves this song because she loves your taste in music, and I love it because its a word-song that can be yours and mine hers and everyone else’s all at the same time.

We cackled at my immitation of a seagull giving a eulogy for a dying cat and made light of the fact that my voice is beginning to escape to wherever it is my appetite and my dreams have gone. We chuckled that she’d actually convinced me to try on the gold bikini at Primark, and laughed even harder that I actually wished they’d had it in a size that fit my … you know. you would.

she went to bed for work in a few hours, and I opened the computer once again to replay and replay and replay and replay the song we listened to before because I knew it would let the words rush in like the tide. — http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6VAkOhXIsI0&feature=related (see for yourself.) —

there are no answers here. none for you about me, and unfortunately none for me about me either. All I can say is that I’m beginning to loose my voice. and I can’t remember how to sleep. and that I feel angry and alive and dead and hopeful and lost and amused and worthless and fresh and exhausted and girly and cynical and like I hold it all in the palm of my hand or better yet, my heart. and I’m greatfull for girls, especially those whose names begin with Ks.

“But examine everything carefully. Hold fast to that which is good.” – 1 Thessalonians 5:21

yours.Rachel

mid-semester progress report:

March 24 - progress report on subject 92087. Aliases – Pandora, Helen, Topanga, Clementine, Elizabeth Bennet.

Appearance: subject continues to masquerade as a redhead, with a new haircut. height and weight remain (unfortunately) the same.

Location: Subject continues to travel. Barcelona, Michigan, Paris, London in less than a month. Travel time begins to wear on subject. Current location, London England.

Vitals: subject appears to be unintentionally ignoring basic human needs. Subject no longer feels the need or desire to sleep or eat for extended periods of time, at which point subject 92087 crashes, sleeping for long periods or forcing themself to eat. Only begining to develop negative physical side effects. These factors aside, subject appears to be healthy and fully functional. Subject appears cognizent of this behavior and makes conscious efforts to correct it. Succeeds with reguard to eating, less success with sleeping.

Performance: Subject often performs at peak efficiency, but when not performing at this level often sinks to less that ‘normal’ performance standards. Subject exhibits little interest in academic pursuits, but as usual, takes great interest in internal and external observation and writing.

Traits: Subject continues to exhibit those traits commonly exhibited in her behavior and attitudes – optimism, intensity, hyper-maturity, introspection. New traits are begining to develop in subject – intentionally imperfect decision making, and desire to “live in the moment”. occasional smoking. Maturity seems to be gained as subject develops and begins to internalize new perspectives on friendship, love, and sense of self.

Relationships: Subject alternates between seeking companionship and refusing it. As per usual, subject maintains a close circle of intimate acquaintances and a large circle of casual ones. Subject is drawing closer to many in the immediate circle for support surrounding recent tragic events, but and internal dis-satisfaction creates rifts between subject and some close acquaintances. Subject displays encouraging ability to bite her lip, and such issues remain as convoluted and complicated as always. This appears to be the one area in which the subject displays consistency.

General Observation: Subject appears to be in the midst of a transitional period. Many new philosophies and ideas are being adopted by the subject, and slowly, subject picks through what will be preserved and what will be discarded and regarded as a threat to the sanctity of self. Future of subject remains uncertain – although the future location of the subject has been determined for the next year, everything else remains a mystery. This uncertainty creates some anxiety within the subject, but less than anticipated, suggesting progress on the part of the subject. Subject maintains functionality despite continuous bombardments with distractions and complications. Subject stands to learn much from this observation period, and will likely learn even more from the year to come.

I never thought I would see Ann Arbor as a microcosm for our country, but then I guess there’s a lot I’m discovering these days

Until Sunday evening, I had even successfully avoided feeling re-acclimated to the United States. All was well, good, and detached until I pulled out onto 275 south. Merging from one lane to another, turning 94.7 WCSX up to the point were I could barely hear myself singing at the top of my lungs, and getting on to M14 bound for Ann Arbor. I parked in the garage I do every Easter and on warm evenings when I stroll though the downtown area because I can’t stand to be in Farmington or the cornfield we affectionately refer to as Albion College. After parking, I walked out of the garage and passed a haggard old man. Chocolate brown skin, wiry salt and pepper hair, and more than a few teeth missing, he stood near the edge of the parking garage and was quickly approached by a tall white (ex-suburban) boy in his early 20th, multiple piercings, with a backpack and a faded army jacket. “Hey man, do you know what time it is?”, as he and the other shook hands. I smiled. (I think I miss the sketchyness, even when its not attached to anyone in particular I know)

Upon reaching Main Street, I found it filled – as always – with ethnic restaurants, bars, music venues, and little shops and galleries. The streets weren’t cobblestone – they were concrete, and asphalt. On the street, I passed people of more than one race (it’s been ages), and chuckled at the troop of students adorned with sparkley and fuzzy green flair for the one day when everyone becomes Irish. and again as upon passing a young man sulkingly dressed as a woman, having clearly lost a bet, and providing great entertainment for his friends who followed close behind him.

I had Chinese with a good friend – in a place where, a year ago, we had seen a vision of our future, and I ate the same dish I had that day and one I love to order at another restaurant with which I have a series of fond memories in New York City. We chatted, gossiped, and divulged secrets, laughing like no time had passed. We walked together back to the parking garage, and prepared to go our separate ways. Neither of us was really sure we had seen each other, as such an event was not supposed to occur until the sun melted ALL the snow and we were permitted by the fashion police to wear white, but we embraced anyway and said another goodbye.

As I drove back to my house in Farmington, I remembered how much I missed being able to drive and sing at the top of my lungs, and upon my arrival I settled into the our brown lazy-boy chair to watch some Law and Order SVU.

yours.Rachel

ellipsis within an ellipsis? Or just more of that “Life” thing

Rome FCO to CDG: the short beginning to a short trip, and a classically French airport. Terribly organized, but the food was delicious and the airline attendants were dressed impeccably.

CDG to DTW: surprisingly, the flight passed quickly, or as quickly as 9 hours strapped in between a metal armrest and a concave plastic wall and mounted atop a cushion that doubles as a liferaft can. She met me at baggage claim – tall as ever – and I was convinced I must be shrinking. maybe it’s just the weight on my shoulders… that weight carried over my shoulder was all I’d brought home with me, so we headed to the car. We caught up, and mused together about why exactly this supposed-to-be uneventful semester had gone up in flames. Was the timber really that dry when I left?

…something between a week and a weekend – caught between jetlag and a holiday – this little ellipses in the middle of my semester was a welcome one. At first I feared I might be doing nothing more than running, expensively and across time zones, but as coffee and hookah and mongolian bbq and coldstone and tears and tissues and music and memories were shared, I found myself “whelmed”. No underly or overly so, just enough to be what was needed and to warrant the creation of a word. Another day in the life…

DTW to AMS: The stewardess who demonstrated how to save myself in the event of a tragic plane crash had not come by yet to pick up my trash, so I continued to pick (not “eat”) at the container of muck masquerading itself as “Beef Stew.” Still, the cookies were good, my video screen allowed me to make my own play list and choose my own movies, and oh-yeah-that’s-right-I’m-going-to-Rome so I can’t complain. I looked out the window to see a few lights on a coast-line. Referring to my jack-of-all-trades video monitor, I concluded we were in Canada, B.F.E approximately.

Ahead of me the mist was impenetrable and I could see nothing more than a haze. But behind me, the horizon was aflame. Dusk with her rose-red fingers lit up the sharp edge, a warm spectrum of vibrant color. It looked like the edge of the world, and as my eyes traced the hard line of color, I realized that in a sense, it was the edge of the world. Of a world. The world I was leaving, again. A world on fire with confusion, with discovery, with death, with love. Filled with relationships, ethnic food, saturated fats, sketchy drug deals, traffic, and poignant memories. Slowly, the vivid reds and oranges began to give way to sherbety shades and then finally to the darkness of night. I almost said “I love you. Goodbye” aloud…

AMS to FCO: the flight was short and nearly empty, so I comendired an entire row of seats and streched out with George in my arms. Under the watchful eye of a friendly Dutch stewardess, I slept like a baby.

When I arrived at my apartment, I found my bed missing. It was in another room, as it had hosted a weekend visitor, and I dragged it back where it belonged. My daze was so heavy even the squeaking of the metal frame against the door could not break my trance. I lay down, tossing and turning with feverish and frightening dreams at first, but finally I settled into the sort of black-hole sleep that only exhaustion can produce.

and it continues. Paris tomorrow, London to follow. Then Capri, Spain, and Morocco. Just under 2 months left. Here Dusk with her rose-red fingers fades quickly too…

“Happiness, that grand mistress of the ceremonies in the dance of life, impels us all through its mazes and meanderings, but leads none of us by the same route.” – Charles Caleb Colton

yours.Rachel

Dylan Lindgren

usually, I refuse to use names on my blog. It’s a matter of principle, really. I have no fears about sharing my introspective reflections with anyone who chooses to read my blog, and as someone who defines their life in large part by their relationships, my friendships are an important part of what needs to be written in this space. But, as they are individuals – trekking through self-discovery just like me – I don’t feel it is my place to tell you their stories. Their lives are my life, and so I have to share the experiences that are had, but its up to them to revel themselves to you in personhood if they so choose.

But I’d like to make an exception to this rule. in this case, Dylan can’t tell you his story, but I believe it’s one that deserves to be heard.

Dylan grew up in a tough situation – one of those suburban households that made people like me with a dad, mom, sister, and bichone-frise Poco in a nice house with nice cars and nice photo albums from nice trips bite my lip in with self-conscious awareness of privilege. He spent his life in the Salem Church family, and that’s how we became friends.

For years we spent our weekends in Sunday school and singing in the choir. As a boy not afraid to sing (in a small congregation) he was a star, and he held many important musical (and Vacation Bible School) roles – including but not limited to Shadrack (I was Meschah, and another little blonde boy was Abednego, and we played it “cool” wearing sunglasses and drinking pop in the furnace while we were saved from the fire by an angel), several old testament prophets, and various animals and heavenly hosts. He ascended the ranks of Christmas-pageantry, climbing from angel #3 to shepherd to king to Joseph to the king himself. When we performed Jesus Christ Superstar he was Jesus – it took several rehearsals until he and Judas could sing about my “profession” as Mary Magdalene without all three of us laughing hysterically – and when it all came together better than we ever expected and he was crucified brutally on the cross, the congregation and audience sat too awed to cry and we knew that the Holy Spirit or something must have been moving in the place that night.

He was the the first in a line of youths appointed to the church governing board, and even when he drank the communion wine with another debautcherous kid everyone forgave him and went on loving him because in a family that’s what you do. He played piano for the children’s choir once he was old enough to sing with the adults, and he was always a ringleader in the plot of mischievous hand-motions to Jacob’s Ladder that only our director could see but we all knew were going on because we could hear the entire tenors section laughing.

He was a defining presence on many mission trips – making words like “corn!”, “where’s Laura?”, and “BOOM!” come alive, and he painted/repaired houses, changing lives of residents while simultaneously attracting a group of admiring Jesus-centric girls we affectionately referred to as Dylan-hoes. Together, we found humor in religious fundamentalism, and we nodded our heads and smiled at Bible “scholars” and people who told us that people with hairy-legs are rapists and that “pornography kills”.

Every person in the congregation adored him. Every child loved to be carried or chased by him, every middle-aged person loved to be helped by him in the running of the church, and every elderly person loved to watch his life go by because they could see what it meant to the life of the church and all the individuals within it.

He graduated and went on to Hillsdale, and that’s a story I can’t tell because I don’t know it well enough.

You’d be hard pressed to find a picture of him where he isn’t wearing something absurd, attacking someone with love, or making a ridiculous face. He spent his life making people laugh, making people think, and making an influence with everything he did.

On March 8th at 4:30am, Dylan Lindgren passed away surrounded by his family and friends. Just weeks shy of 23 years old, Dylan lost his exhausting battle with Lymphoma. He passed without fear I believe, and basking in the love of his family, friends, and our God, leaving behind changed lives and a legacy that will never be forgotten.
In the years that I’ve know him – almost all my life – the most influential thing he has ever said to me occurred within the last year. The Lymphoma had been raging for a year, and we were sitting at Starbucks one August Sunday before I returned to school. We couldn’t share drinks or too much physical proximity because we didn’t want him to get sicker than he already was, so we shared stories instead.

We were talking about the cancer, and he said something amazing. “I’m not really afraid to die”, he said. “More than anything, I just don’t want to look back on my youth – this time when we should all be out having fun and doing stupid things – and realize that I missed my chance to do it. Really, that’s all I’m afraid of.”

So what does that mean for those of us who are lucky enough to have our youth?

If we are alive, let us go about our business.

yours.Rachel

siesta thoughts

Bedroom. tired, but unable to sleep.

Sitting on the mustard-colored crushed velvet armchair whose back rests against the wall with our frosted French-doors that scrape the floor every time you open or close them, I have a panoramic view of this large and peculiarly square space I call my own. An antique brass chandelier with only two working bulbs hangs from the center of the room and provides the only source of light other than the tiny fragmented rays that sneak in through the thick metal blinds.

My roommate’s bed is unmade, sheets tossed about in a way that makes it clear she has every intention to return as soon as possible. On the floor next to the bed, a David Sedaris novel sits propped against a pair of faux-wooden slippers, proudly printed in a bovine pattern with a smiling cow on each toe – “Amsterdam” embroidered just above her feminine eyelashes; I suspect Mr. Sedaris would be proud to be in such company. My bed sits in the opposite corner of my room; freshly made with a matching set of sheets and pillowcase (I scouerd the apartment to find them and rejoiced at my success). The sheets are a sort of muted-giraffe print, and on top of the pillow sits George, my very well traveled stuffed monkey/sleeping companion. Follow the dark brown vines of plants down the tan colored blanket that covers my bed (and has covered many other beds since its birth circa 1975) to find my cheetah print slippers, and my little corner seems to have a bit of jungle fever. Follow the vines toward the end of the bed, however, and this motif changes a little. At the foot of my bed I keep an extra blanket (for those 3 dog nights here in Italy) The only available options I found in our apartment closet one freezing early-morning were one blanket that looked like cookie monster skinned stretched out and ironed, and a plaid flannel fringed blanket. I decided that sleeping beneath a scalped childhood friend was probably not conducive to good karma or sweet dreams, so I chose the latter. However, coupled with my subdued jungle theme, my bed seems to have a sort-of “Al Borland goes big game hunting” motif to it.

Marco, my neighbor from upstairs must not have a job. At various times throughout the day he makes a wide variety of noises, none of which seem to pertain to any sort of occupation he might be doing from his home. He seems to consider himself a musician of sorts, and his afternoon piano concertos are actually well played and an enjoyable background soundtrack to Italian workbook pages or heroic Homeric poetry.

I wish I could say the same for his drumming. In American suburbs, this kind of “music” is common coming from aspiring 12 year olds whose parents have moved them into the basement or outside the house. (The term garage rock came from somewhere, people). However, my friend Marco seems to think himself quite a rockstar as he pounds away – clack-clack-clack- thud…clack thud. thud thud. clack. Lacking anything that vaguely resembles rhythm, I’m beginning to think he is just a big boy who likes to bang. That suspicious is confirmed also by the other noises we hear coming from above – these are heard in our dinning room, and as they are presumably made by four posts of a bed I am happy to report he seems to possess a better sense of rhythm in this area than he does in his drumming. For the sake of his partner, I am very greatful.

say my name, say my name

I’m beginning to take rather warmly to my name.

Coming to terms with ones name is something every child growing up has to face. And, in the same way every girl with ringlets wishes for stick straight locks and every straight-haired girl wishes they had even a bit of curl, almost everyone goes through a phase of name-envy. Children with unusual names like Montserrat or Edgar wish for ones like Katie and John, while children with those names wish quite the reverse. As a child, I was unarguably convinced that my life would be several hundred percent better if I could be named Amber. Maybe it was the character from The Babysitter’s Club who inspired my desire, or perhaps it was yet another subconscious way to defy the intellectualism that had been (attemptedly) instilled upon me from an early age. Or, it may have been the fact that Amber is not a name from the Bible, which even in the pre-pastoral days of my mother, was grounds for dismissal.

There is only one hope for every child who grew up despising their name – a nick name. Some people have last names that more than make up for their seemingly-inadequate first names, and they begin to use those by mid-grade school. But as my last name does little more than inspire a handful of bad jokes (hey – don’t Tripp! or that’s pretty Trippy! haha get it?) I was out of luck there. In 5th grade I developed a nickname from a girl we referred to as “Rissy”; I was dubbed Ray-chay-chelli, which was shortened to Chelli for practical purposes. I was Chelli for most of the forth and fifth grade, but as my elementary friendships faded they took my nickname with them. Since then (almost 10 years ago), I haven’t had a nickname that stuck. I am really only called by my given name, and in fact, I’m often called by my full name. Especially at Albion and amongst my sisters I am Rachel Tripp. not even because there are too many Rachels (although that happens frequently… I’m used to being Rachel squared or Rachel number “something” – I usually compete for the coveted title of Rachel #1). Even my closest girl friends refer to me as Rachel Tripp, as if somehow all of that is my title. as if Rachel itself isn’t even enough.

it’s got me to thinking, and the more I think the more I like it.

Rachel

It begins with a consonant. Not a bitter, angry consonant, but a decidedly present one. It politely but firmly makes itself known, introducing its self humbly but with chin-up. This decidedness is immediately followed by arguably the most pronounced sound in all of my name – the sweeping vowel good for lengthening, midwesternizing, and generally carrying the name forward. A balancing shift comes next from a combination of consonants who, on their own, would each produce entirely different sounds, but in tandem they produce something that resembles no other sound in the alphabet. another vowel follows, but only to prepare the way for a more muted consonant, lingering in the back of the throat before coming to a close. Rachel.

Elizabeth

The soft elegance of it seems to flow nicely behind Rachel.  Classic but not stiflingly so (like Mildred, for example).  A mischievous letter “z” sits hidden, waiting to be discovered between the folds of more conventional letters. And as I age the Jane Austen character resemblance becomes increasingly meaningful, appreciated, and (I’d like to think) appropriate. Rachel Elizabeth.

Tripp

a name which, on its own, holds little glamor or beauty. But it makes a nice compliment to its predecessors – without celebrity-like alliteration or exotic foreign translations. Its not overly complicated or arrogantly unique, instead it is simple and unpretentious. A very practical ending to a sweet, polite, and deceptively deep name. Rachel Elizabeth Tripp.

in the last few years, I’ve begun to enjoy the sounds of my own name, but mostly dripping off the lips of men – a few in particular. It’s hard not to appreciate a name that seems uniquely yours coming from the mouth of an admirer (or someone you admire), and the sincerity and care they put into pronouncing the short syllables is enough to melt you and all your vowels and consonants into a puddle on the floor.

More recently, I’ve begun to like the sound of my name from women, strangers, and even from my own lips. There are other aliases by which I call myself (Pandora, Clementine, etc) but most are more aptly titled as epithets. In the way the ancient Greeks used to add titles like “Athena Parthenos” (Athena the virgin) or “Poseidon Pater” (Poseidon the father) to speak of certain aspects of their deities, I consider such labels to do the same in my own life. I’ve come to embrace my own name, and the desire I used to have upon introducing myself to say “Hi, I’m Amber. Nice to meet you…” is completely gone.

“A name pronounced is the recognition of the individual to whom it belongs. He who can pronounce my name aright, he can call me, and is entitled to my love and service.” -Henry David Thoreau

yours.RachelElizabethTripp

spring has sprung

This winter in Italy has been the coldest in years. Even the Italians were complaining – loudly and with flailing gestures – about the vicious chill in the air. It was a tease too, because the sun would come out and warm the stone just enough to encourage the old ladies to put away their fur coats for the season (that’s the thing here, along with gloves and hats…every woman over 60 looks like the best dressed-1950s woman you’ve ever seen), but by the evening it was chilly again. However, in the past week the weather has been warming, and even on the gloomy days in the city a person feels less like there’s nothing to be done but sit in the apartment on Facebook and AIM. *speaking abstractly of course* The icy chill of winter seems to be warded off for the next several months, and people are beginning to congregate in piazzas to eat gelato or simply to share the sunshine.

In honor of spring’s tradition and in denial of miditerms, I devoted myself to a classic pastime – spring cleaning. Our apartment was…ahhhem...less than clean when we moved in, so this task in its entirety amounted to several springs worth of cleaning. I began in the heart of it all – my bedroom. It’s been quite a while since I’ve had the time to clean my room (or, frankly, the emotional independence to be able to close the door on the world for long enough to do it), and it was beginning to reflect the sort of “disaster hidden underneath the bed” state I often entertain but dislike.

I actually began the process Friday night but only got as far as to remove everything from all flat (and hidden) surfaces, piling all my things in a mountain in the center of the room. (Fortunately my roommate was away in Amsterdam – not spring cleaning, I expect – for the weekend.) I awoke Saturday morning and began to tackle Mount Everest to the sounds of the newest yelloBeat and the Garden State soundtrack. Ignoring the fact that it was entirely too early to be drinking, I poured myself a glass of the fabulous Alsace white I was drinking the previous evening and went about my business – it was fabulous. Cleaning has always been a cathartic endeavor for me when I set out to do it, and I was happy to have found anew my ability to be alone with myself and the Shins (and their other musical companions). Within a few hours, I found myself lying on a freshly made bed, contentedly reflecting on the beauty of the newest musical additions to my life and the old favorite that defined me and others back when we were spiritual virgins and listening to blue-eyes screwing his latest conquest in the shower down the hall. We’ve come a long way from then…

there it was. It had happened – the sun had gone and murdered the snow – and the stargazer lilies were beginning to bloom. I suppose it’s all just a part of the seasons – this “W” shaped chart of our emotions courtesy of the AC Off Campus Study department. As long as I can get through midterms (credit/no-credit. Down, Overachiever… good girl), I’m looking forward to Barcelona, Paris, and London this month, and more adventures to come beyond that. And as long as I can let myself be dragged out of the apartment, I’m likely to find beautiful things and beautiful people, friendships developing with big plans in off the beaten path pubs, and plenty of good wine and great coffee. E dolce, no?

“Yesterday is but a dream, tomorrow but a vision.  But today well lived makes every yesterday a dream of happiness, and every tomorrow a vision of hope.  Look well, therefore, to this day.  Such is the salutation of the dawn.” -Sanskrit Proverb

yours.Rachel